


Min Skatt

by Professional_Creeper



Category: Hell on Wheels (TV)
Genre: Awkward Sexual Situations, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, M/M, No abbreviations, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Other, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Reader-Insert, Smut, dominant The Swede, gender neutral reader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-15
Updated: 2019-04-15
Packaged: 2020-01-13 13:28:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18469909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Professional_Creeper/pseuds/Professional_Creeper
Summary: The Swede is an unpleasant man, who has been tormenting and extorting your brother over rent money. You hate him. But oh no, he's hot.(Min skatt - Norwegian, meaning "my treasure," or alternatively, "my tax.")





	Min Skatt

Thor Gundersen is, without a doubt, an evil man. He exudes an unnatural calmness as he walks from the tavern tent back to the caboose car that served as his office and lodging, almost floating as he went, so little did he make any extraneous movements or expressions. In his long, black coat and pale skin, glowing even paler in the moonlight, he was a spectre of death. Your heart races as you watch him, keeping just out of sight.

 

* * *

 

You came to Hell on Wheels a few weeks ago at your brother’s invitation, to help him run his shop. He sold gear to the railroad workers—mainly boots and gloves, which were always wearing out, and various everyday wares. The letter he sent flatteringly wrote of your skill for mending, tailoring, and tracking inventory as the reasons he wanted you to come work with him, but you suspected it was more likely he had gambled all his profits away and was looking for an employee he wouldn’t have to pay.

These suspicions were confirmed nearly the moment you stepped off the train.

You found your brother’s tent, with your brother on the floor, and a tall stranger in the act of beating him. Your brother met your eyes and beamed with relief.

“Now, if you’ll hold on, Mr. Swede—if you’ll just turn around, you’ll see my kin has come with the money you’re owed, just as I promised!”

“Excuse me? I thought I came here so you could give me a job.”

The tall man gave your brother a final kick in the side, doubling him over in pain, and turned to face you with an obsequious smirk. “So you're the mysterious sibling?I was beginning to think you was a mere fiction to delay my payment, yes?” His sharp, intelligent eyes looked you up and down, as if examining a piece of merchandise. You feel hot under his gaze.

“Unfortunately, we _are_ related.” Your fists clenched, “Now leave him the hell alone.”

“I will, as soon as I get what I am owed.”

“And who are you, exactly?”

“Just give him the money!” your brother coughed. You shot back a glare.

“I am head of security in this camp.”

“Of course you are,” you groaned. “That’s the way the world always is, isn’t it?—the fox guarding the henhouse.”

He growled under his breath. “I keep _order_ for Mr. Durant. How I maintain that order not your concern. Ah, but we have not been properly introduced. They call me the Swede. Thor Gundersen.”

“So that accent’s Swedish?”

“I am from Norway, but no matter.”

“Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. The Norwegian.”

He smiled at this. You told him your name. He repeated it, rolling it over his tongue in a sensuous purr that make the hair on the back of your neck stand up.

“How much does he owe you?”

“Six dollars, plus interest.”

Your stomach dropped. That was nearly all the money you had. “I see. Well, you can continue hitting him, then.” You turned as if to leave.

The Swede chuckled, eyes glinting wickedly.

“Please, you can’t leave me like this! Think of mom!” your brother pleaded.

He was right. You _couldn’t._ Irresponsible as he was, he was family. And just like that, you were handing over your meager savings to some greasy-haired Scandinavian crook. As the bills passed from your hands to his, any allure you may have felt toward him was replaced by a cold, growing hatred, returned only by an equally cold smile. This was a calculator, not a man with a beating heart.

 

That was why you started watching him. Because he was dangerous, and somebody needed to keep tabs on him. That’s what you told yourself.

But every time you saw him, you couldn’t stop the excited tingling in your chest, no matter how hard you tried. Even when he returned to your brother’s shop each week to collect his toll, you looked forward to seeing his face—to your brief banter, his sharp wit, eventual threats, and ultimately, theft of your profits (and some merchandise, insolently plucked from the shelf as he exited). Somehow, every wicked thing he did only made him more charming.

Perhaps it was the way he always levied his threats against your brother, but tipped his hat politely to you. Being treated (relatively) kindly by a man who hated everyone made you wonder what he found so special about you. Or was his favor simply because you were the only person in camp to call him Norwegian?

One evening, as you covertly tailed him, you overheard him mention that he had been a prisoner of war in Andersonville, where he nearly died from starvation. Learning this softened your opinion of him even more. It broke your heart to think of him being so badly mistreated—despite his intimidating height, he was thin and fragile. Even those eyes, which had seemed emotionless, you now saw held the pain of what he couldn’t forget. Who was he before that experience? What sort of meek bookkeeper might he have been before cruelty hardened him? You wanted to meet that man. You wanted to hold him in your arms and protect him.

The tingling in your chest was becoming a fire.

 

* * *

 

Tonight, in the night air, you follow him. You trail him from the tavern all the way back to his caboose car, your heart pounding, blood singing in your ear, and open the door.

He stands in front of his accounting desk, wearing a look of surprise at your unannounced entrance.

“What is this?”

You can’t answer. You aren’t even sure what you’re doing. You want him. You need to touch him. The desire burns within you, overpowering any other thought.

“This is my private quarters. I ain’t hearing complaints tonight about how I handle debtors; take it up in the morning.”

“My brother and his dealings with you have nothing to do with this. This visit is of a personal nature.”

“Well?”

“I want you to court me,” you blurt out.

“Excuse me?”

“I mean, if you want. Or I could… court you? If that’s proper? I… I would like to… initiate an amorous relationship… with you. If you’re interested.”

His head cocks to the side, and he stares as if you’ve gone mad. Then, with an, “Ah,” he chuckles. “A noble effort, but I'm afraid you won't pay off your brother's debts whoring yourself. It is not a form of currency I accept.”

Your cheeks blaze. “ _THAT HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH IT!_ I just...” You take a step toward him and are reminded how very tall he is, “...have feelings for you. Unfortunately.”

His lips press together in a thin line and his eyes narrow. “Now that seems unlikely. What is this, then? Are you here to distract me, hmm? Let me guess—your brother sneaking around back now to catch me off guard for some sort of revenge?” he goes to the window and looks around, finding nothing. “No matter. I will figure it out.”

You heave a great, frustrated sigh. “Here!” you take his hand and press it to your throat. “Feel my pulse racing? I couldn’t fake that excitement. I am freaking out because I’m _confessing my feelings_.”

“Perhaps you are a nervous liar.”

“Oh, goddamn you.”

But he doesn’t remove his hand. It lingers there, warm and intimate. His thumb strokes the side of your neck, under your ear, and his eyes examine you with curiosity. You move even closer, shuddering with satisfaction as your bodies touch. His hand begins to travel downward. He reaches under your collar, and you gasp as he teases a nipple between his fingers. You weren’t expecting things to move this fast, but you don’t want him to stop. Swallowing hard, you help him undo your top, so it hangs open suggestively. He begins to kiss down your neck, sending shivers coursing down your spine, until his mouth finds your other nipple, and begins lightly tracing his tongue over it. You moan, and lean helplessly back against his desk, melting. You grab his head and hold him where you want him. “Harder,” you whisper.

“Demanding, hmm?” he sucks harder, giving you a nip that makes you cry out.

You find the bulge straining against the front of his pants and rub your palm against it through the fabric. He takes in a sharp breath, moving his hips with you for a fleeting moment, then pulls away from you, straightening up.

“Take your clothes off,” he orders, unfastening his collar. You obey.

Except for removing his vest and loosening his shirt, he doesn’t follow suit, and you feel exposed standing in this tightly enclosed rail car, naked, with his blue eyes observing every inch of your body. It’s almost like he’s looking at one of his accounting sheets, the way he stares, simultaneously cold and enraptured.

He pushes you back against the wall and kneels between your legs, his tongue cool against your hot skin, teasing you with light kisses everywhere but the place you yearn for it. You whimper, shifting your hips to get his mouth where you want, but the more you struggle, the farther he drifts. An impish smile stretches the corner of his lips.

Then all at once, his mouth closes over your arousal, swirling and circling his tongue around the sensitive cluster of nerve endings, licking and sucking it. You moan, letting the wall take your weight as you melt. You start rocking your hips into him, creating a rhythm, getting him to go deeper, but he grabs your thighs and pins them against the wall. The message is clear—he is in control. Even on his knees beneath you, he is not showing submission. He just wanted to taste you, to make you writhe under his tongue.

Being so helpless sends a chill of adrenaline through your body—wanting to squirm, wanting to direct him, but being completely at the mercy of the next warm flick of his tongue, and the nodding of his head between your legs. He starts to go faster, slipping a finger inside you, moving it in and out, in and out, spreading warmth through your lower body until your breathing is ragged and you are nearing your breaking point.

“Please… don’t stop,” you beg. “Faster...”

“Naughty, naughty… not so fast. You will finish when I tell you… when I decide you has earned it.”

“Nooo!” You buck your hips into him with a desperate whine, but he’s already pulled away. You walked through his door still holding onto some semblance of pride, but now you just wanted him more than anything. “How do I earn it?”

He licks his lips, grinning salaciously, wiping off the excess saliva on his sleeve cuff. He flips you, roughly pressing you up against the wood-slat walls, and you feel him unbuttoning his pants behind you. The tip of his cock presses against your entrance. “Let me fuck you, hmm?”

You nod eagerly.

He pushes inside, opening you, then pulls back, and pushes inside again, deeper this time. He’s much more gentle, _careful_ , than you imagined. You can hear his steady breath shake with every inch gained, massaging your opening with shallow thrusts of his cock, reading in the tightness of your walls and the arching of your back when you’re prepared to take more of him, until finally his full length is buried inside you.

He pulls out one last time, and plunges inside you hard and sets a sharp, precise rhythm. You cry out at the sudden roughness, and you want more, rocking your hips to accentuate his pounding into you. His hand closes around your neck, thumb feeling the racing pulse that pounds in your ears. He leans over you, nipping your earlobe, shoulders, and the back of your neck, his hot breath tickling your skin. His long fingers creep up over your jaw and brush against your lips. A finger slips inside your mouth. You suck it, moaning as it gently explores your tongue.

“You want to come?” he asks, sounding less in control now, despite efforts to mask his hitched breathing.

“Please… _please_ …”

He reaches between your legs and strokes your tender, throbbing flesh, which explodes in sensation at his touch. His hands seem to know exactly what you need to reach climax, now that he’s done holding back, and his persistent rhythm, coupled with the quickening thrusts of his hard length, filling and stretching you, brings you closer to the edge with each motion. His once-clockwork pace grows more frantic, desperate, slamming you into the wall until the car begins to shake, and you scream out. Surges of warmth radiate from the friction between you through your whole body, and even he loses control of his voice, letting out a passionate moan with every thrust, until he bites down hard on your shoulder, and you come, spasming and contracting around his impossibly hard cock. He plunges one last time as deep as he can go, and holds deep inside you, the rippling contractions of your orgasm milking every drop of seed from him, filling you with his warmth.

 

You pant together, sticky and spent, holding each other for a brief, tender moment. Then he pulls out quickly, without intimacy, and hurriedly crosses the room to fetch a couple of handkerchiefs from a drawer. “Don’t move!” he barks across the car. “Don’t drip on my floor.”

Your cheeks get hot as you become acutely aware of the fluids dribbling down your leg. “Hey, most of this is yours, you know!”

When he returns to hand you the rag, your eyes meet. He looks strangely stunned by you, as if suddenly realizing what just happened. His face is flushed and out of breath, and for once, he has no snarky quips. (It’s hard to remain composed when you’re standing with a handkerchief over your genitals in front of someone you barely know and just fucked.) He lowers his eyes shyly, but this only results in him looking at your naked body again. It’s adorable. You grab his face and pull him into a hard kiss. He wraps his arms around you, and kisses you back.

“Thank you for that,” you whisper when you finally separate, still close enough to feel his breath on your lips, and your foreheads touching.

“It was my pleasure.”

“Well then, Mr. Norwegian… Mr. Gundersen, um… Thor. Do you have any plans for the rest of the evening?”

“My schedule is open, _min_ _skatt_ ,” he smiles.

 

 


End file.
